


In the Days of the King

by Lady_Branwyn



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, Cross-cultural, Drabble, F/M, Ficlet, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gondor, Grief/Mourning, Ithilien, Light Angst, Lothlórien, Post-War of the Ring, Surprise Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 19:35:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20233231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Branwyn/pseuds/Lady_Branwyn
Summary: Short fics from the Reunited Kingdom





	1. Forfeit (Beregond)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Characters You Never Write" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

“We secured passage for you on a ship to Pelargir. Her captain is a trustworthy man.”

“I will not flee like a common thief.” He kept his voice to a whisper, for Bergil slept nearby.

“By ancient law, your life will be forfeit. Leave now, before they put you in irons.”

“And be doubly cursed as both coward and traitor?”

“Think of your sons!”

“You risk much for my sake, yet still I must refuse.”

After his friends had left, he polished his boots and brushed the black and silver tabard. Then he stood beside the bed, watching Bergil sleep.


	2. The Household Accounts (Eowyn)

“Fifty cones of linen warp.

“Twenty cones of woolen thread dyed with weld.

“Forty cones of undyed woolen thread."

The housekeeper’s voice rose in a dreary chant as they walked the length of the storeroom. The old woman did not even glance at the open account book held in her hand.

_As cheerful as the song beside a newly-raised barrow,_ Eowyn thought.

A row of wooden chests stood along the back wall. The two women pushed at the first lid until it creaked open with a sweet breath of cedar. Inside lay a length of blood-red cloth.

The housekeeper gently lifted the folded bundle and held it out to Eowyn. “Fourteen ells of wool dyed with good madder. Twenty ells were bought, but the tailor took six for Lord Boromir’s new surcoat last winter.”

_So heavy and soft._ Eowyn ran her hand along the cloth. She had met Boromir the Tall and remembered his restless mood; she could see this supple stuff swinging behind him with each long stride he took. Yet where now was that bright surcoat? She dared not think. “It is very fine,” Eowyn murmured.

Under the cloth of scarlet, they found a black brocade dappled with the simplest pattern of leaves. “This, my lady, was ordered from the weavers for Lord Denethor, but the tunic was never made.” The old woman offered it to Eowyn with a slight bow.

Her hands were still rough from days of riding and warfare, so the silk threads caught like burs on her calloused skin. Eowyn knew she would never use this cloth that was woven for a dead man. With a nod, she handed it back to the housekeeper.

The next chest held scraps of sea-green velvet sprinkled with silver beads, pieces left from the making of a gown. “No more than two ells at most, but the mis--the lady Finduilas asked me to save them.”

Eowyn smoothed out the folds in the velvet. _Enough for a gown for a maid child._

Together, they placed the textiles back in the chests, layering them between garlands of lavender and wormwood to ward off corruption and pests.

“You have kept this storeroom well,” Eowyn told the housekeeper when they were finished with their work. “I see no sign of rot or beetles.” Then gladly she left to tend to other duties, for this accounting of the household had left her strangely downcast.


	3. The Armorer (Original Character, Faramir)

"Who mended this for you, my lord?" the grey-haired armorer asked with an incredulous look. "A wandering tinker, the patcher of leaky pots?"

Faramir’s solemn eyes widened slightly in surprise, but then he shook his head and laughed.

"Well, I will soon set it to rights." The armorer placed the battered helm on a low work table cluttered with bits and pieces of harness. As he straightened up from this task, he stepped quickly forward, asking, “My lord? Are you ill?” He steadied the young lord, grasping his arm. Then he followed his gaze to the table and sighed. "I see, then. Yes, he brought those here, the day before he left."

He picked up a huge, fluted pauldron, handing it to Faramir. "The best work I have ever done; I will make nothing like it again." The leather lining was stained with salt and still breathed the faint musk of sweat. The curved steel was etched with twining branches and eight-petaled stars and, almost hidden, a hunting horn.

"There is none in the City who could wear them now," the armorer said with a catch in his voice. "Forgive me," he whispered when he saw that Lord Faramir wept.


	4. Dragons and Shadows (Faramir, Eowyn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two very different ways of explaining the eclipse of the moon.   
Written for Raksha's birthday.

"Soon only a silver rim will be left. My father says--" Faramir stopped; with the slightest catch in his voice, he carefully spoke again. "My father said the darkness was merely a shadow. The shadow of the earth, though I know that sounds strange."

In the pine tree above them, a ghost owl hissed and ruffled its pale feathers.

"For years, he studied the patterns of the stars." Wrapped in sable against the wind, Denethor had stood alone in the courtyard, endlessly searching the heavens. What wisdom had his father hoped to find in the black night sky?

Eowyn turned from the moon, her face very still; then, drawing near to his warmth, she rested her head against his shoulder. She could feel the muscles drawn tight over bone.

"A shadow? I had not heard this. In Rohan, we say a dragon steals the moon,” she said with a laugh. “He hides it in a grave, with his hoard of silver. That earthen hall is heaped with treasure -- rings and cups and ancient swords. But soon, a young warrior, eager for fame, steals life from the thief, slaying the dragon. Then he throws the silver moon back into the sky.”


	5. Steward's Trumpets (Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Renewal" challenge

As jagged as an eggshell, the broken dome rose before him. Below in the City, chisel rang on stone, but here no mason labored. Faramir knew not why he had returned here. This place held no secrets, only things that were better left hidden. He knew that his father was gone, beyond any hope of healing.

Yet his heart lifted when he saw the green vines, tender in their newness, that twined across the ruins. Fine tendrils grasped the stones, and among the heart-shaped leaves, white flowers turned toward the sun.

_Morning glory,_ folk called them, and also _steward’s trumpets. _


	6. Astride (Eowyn, Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Pommel" challenge

“What is that _thing_ on my horse?” Eowyn asked in disbelief.

“A sidesaddle, your Grace,” the chamberlain said. “Much easier to ride when you wear court dress.”

“Only a fool would hazard such a saddle. That pommel is useless, and my weight would be off center.”

The chamberlain lowered his voice. “Some consider it unseemly for a lady to ride astride.”

“Rather I spread my legs than be thrown and needlessly injured. _That_ would indeed be unseemly.” Eowyn unbuckled the girth and dumped the offending saddle on the ground. She could ride well enough without it, even in courtly robes.


	7. The Turning of the Year (Faramir, Eowyn)

At the touch of the flame, the candlewick flared then glowed, the burnt end of the linen thread curling into blackness. With a sharp breath, Faramir blew out the smoldering straw in his hand. 

“We burn one for each kinsman who died this past year. For memory’s sake and to light their way to the Halls of Mandos.”

Eowyn stared at the row of tall candles. Flames of mingled ivory and blue -- she counted four lights swaying in the darkness. “A most worthy custom, husband. We have none like it in Rohan,” she said, her eyes alight with sudden tears.


	8. In the Midst of the Field (Eowyn, Faramir)

Éowyn held out a handful of silvery grass. “Clover and ryegrass—the right and proper fare for young horses. Once those rocks have been cleared, this will make a fine hay field.” The north wind had loosed her hair from the braids, and silken streamers whipped about her face. The seemly housewife’s coif had long since fallen, unnoticed, to the ground as they walked. Among the blenched grasses and the branches despoiled of any greenery, her rosy face and golden hair were the only traces of color.

The wind rose and fell with the rustle of dry seed heads.

“I fought a battle here,” Faramir told her, though “battle” was too grand a word for that fight. It had been no more than the chance meeting of a few unlucky men. He remembered how the air had shimmered with the pulsing of the insects. He pointed to a linden tree. “We buried the fallen over there.” It seemed he could not cross a field without stumbling on these shallow graves and seeing again the faces of the slain.

“Then we must build a high cairn to mark the place where they rest.” Éowyn’s voice sounded thin and harsh in the cold air, but the press of her gloved hand was warm upon his arm. He rarely spoke of his days as a Ranger; yet when he did, she understood as only another soldier could. He often thanked the Valar for sending him such a wife.


	9. Servant of the Tower (Original Character)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Other Characters" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

Yes, I helped them bear the litter. Why do you stare? I swore to serve our lord in all things.

Would I stand aside and watch him burn? Not gladly. From the time he could reach their flanks with a brush, he helped me groom the horses. And I held the line as he first rode his pony. I loved him like a son. Yet I am merely a servant. When the steward called for oil, I dared not disobey. Do not fool yourselves--you would have done the same.

Boy! Fetch me more wine. I weary of this talk.


	10. Salt Caravan (Boromir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Salty" challenge  
Alternate universe

“What land is your purpose?” The outlander spoke their tongue in a stilted, halting fashion.

“We are taking salt and coffee to Tarqa.”

“This is a distant place?” Pale eyes stared out of the sun-burnt face.

“It lies to the south, through hundreds of leagues of jungle and desert.”

“I am hear you have need for one teamster more.”

“Yes, that is true, but the journey will take some months and you will find no men of Gondor in Tarqa.”

“Such pity.” The outlander laughed, a sound like the cracking of stones that have lain too long in the fire.


	11. The Onion Riddle (Beregond, Original Characters)

“So the lad is his nephew? I have heard it called other things,” a soldier muttered. The others laughed, and one raised his fingers in a telltale gesture.

“These folk are the guests of our lord, and it is not our place to judge their customs,” Beregond told them sharply. “It is a great honor to serve as their escort, so show yourselves worthy of Lord Faramir’s trust.”

Yet when this duty had fallen to Beregond, he had felt more unnerved than honored, so he could scarcely fault his soldiers for their misgivings. What did he know of the children of Durin?

A small party of dwarves had traveled from the Aglarond to search for ore in Ithilien, for Lord Gimli believed that rich veins of iron ran beneath the green hills. Only one day into the search, and Beregond suspected that these dwarves planned to study every rock between the Mountains of Shadow and the Anduin. Again and again, Nali son of Nim called for a halt then swung down from his pony, hitting the ground with a solid thud. The miner stared at each outcropping of stone, scratched it with a file, and then sniffed and tasted the filings. His sister-son Bror stood beside him and handed him the tools. Beregond had never seen a young dwarf and was surprised by his silky beard and slight build and the clear, almost musical sound of his speech, so unlike the rough voices of his older companions. _Well, I doubt even dwarves are born with whiskers,_ Beregond told himself then shook his head to dispel the images of bearded dwarven babes.

Like his soldiers, he had noticed the fond looks that passed between the miner and his young nephew. The bond seemed somehow different than the natural affection between near kin, but he decided that a Man of Gondor might easily misread the words and gestures of another people.

That night as they sat around the camp fire, Beregond asked the dwarves if they would honor their hosts with a tale.

The eldest rose to his feet and bowed until his white beard swept the grass. “Now I will tell you,” he began, “Of the fighting in Erebor at the end of the War. When Dain Ironfoot fell, axe in hand, defending his friend and ally, Brand the Bold of Dale.”

In a deep voice, he told them the story, and the men were astounded to learn that this ancient dwarf had fought in the battle. Then Beregond told the grim tale of the freeing of Moria, for he had had a hand in that task. Their eyes glinting like gems in the firelight, the dwarves nodded their approval as the orcs were routed and slaughtered. Then toasts were called for, so a cask of ale was broached and several flasks of brandy were passed from hand to hand. As the fire burned down, the men and dwarves traded stories, each one wilder and worse than the last. They shouted with laughter when Beregond told the “onion” riddle that he had heard from a troop of Rohirrim.

_I am a wondrous creature; to women a thing of joyous expectation. Firm and straight, bearded below, upright I stand in my bed…_

In recent years, the soldiers of Gondor had learned a wealth of new tales from their allies in Rohan.

The next morning found young Bror somewhat worse for the wear. The poor lad must have been unused to strong drink, for he fell to his knees and retched when one of the soldiers brought him some gruel. Nali just smiled and shook his head. “’Tis the brandy. My people have no stomach for it.”

Yet strangely, during one of their many stops, the lad picked a handful of unripe apples and, as they rode along, he bolted the green fruit like a colt who had wandered into an orchard. This early in the summer, they must have tasted vile and sour.

They rode many slow leagues and looked at many stones that day, and the dwarves were pleased with their progress. At the foot of a cliff near Henneth Annun, where the rocks were stained as red as blood, they shouted aloud in their strange tongue and waved their shovels above their heads. Nali showed Beregond a handful of pebbles. “Look at how fine this ore is, as good as any in the Iron Hills.” Beregond nodded and admired their find, though in truth he knew less than naught about mining.

A light rain was falling when they made their camp for the night. Weary and cold, they took their meal with little cheer then sought the shelter of their tents soon after darkness fell.

To Beregond’s surprise, for there had been no drinking the night before, Nali’s nephew was ill again in the morning, retching into the bushes at the sight of his gruel. The fit left Bror so light-headed that he had to lie down in the grass.

“What ails the lad?” Beregond asked the miner quietly. “If he is unwell, we should return to Osgiliath.”

“Nothing is amiss except that he is unused to travel,” Nali replied and started to turn away.

“Master, I know little of your race, but he looks to be no more than half-grown. Perhaps you have no children of your own, but take my word on this--you must not treat these stomach ailments lightly.” He remembered the time when Bergil was so sick, fevered and vomiting, that the healers had despaired of his life.

“This matter is not your concern.” There was a trace of anger in Nali’s gravelly voice.

“The well-being of every member of this party is my concern and also my responsibility,” Beregond replied, surprised by the dwarf’s response. He seemed to have little regard for his own kin. “We will head for Osgiliath. There are no healers among my men.”

“It is not what you think." 

“Then tell me why he spews up his morning gruel. I will not drag an ailing lad through the wilderness just to find a pile of rocks.”

The dwarf glared at him. Beregond glared back.

“He has no illness that several months' time will not cure, and he is not my sister's son nor is _he_ even a lad.”

The queasiness and the sour apples, the doting glances… But Beregond would never have guessed that dwarven women had beards! And he had seen him—_her_—carrying nearly a hundredweight of gear! “He…she is with child?” Beregond stammered.

The dwarf burst out laughing and thumped him on the shoulder. “Clever guess, Man of Gondor! But do not tell a soul that my nephew is a lass! We dwarves prefer to keep such matters among ourselves.”

Bowing to hide his confusion, Beregond replied, “Of course, Master. I am honored by your trust, and I beg you give my best wishes to your lady wife.” He could feel the blood rising to his face as he remembered the ribald stories around the fire. _I told the onion riddle in front of a lady…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The onion riddle is borrowed from the Anglo-Saxon riddles of the Exeter Book. It is about an onion…or is it? :)


	12. The Armsmaster (Original Characters, surprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An alternate universe drabble about a favorite son of Gondor.   
Written for annmarwalk and Aeneid's birthdays.

"Your sons are skilled beyond their years."

Brandir inclined his head graciously. Watching them practice, he knew it to be true and not just the flattery of a friend.

"Hide behind the shield,” the armsmaster said, “Now bring your arm up. Good. See how your elbow is bent? Try to remember that.” His younger son nodded slightly, his body tensed in the unfamiliar position. The previous armsmaster had taught them a different stance. ”You have lugged this shield across Ithilien, and now you need to use it. Baran, I want you to aim at the center and strike very slowly. Not too hard."

For once, his young hawks were paying heed, even without the threat of a switch.

“Is this new master a local man?”

“No, he came to us in the early spring.”

“Young and well-trained. Why bury himself on this forsaken coastline? A deserter?”

“No, I think not.”

As the armsmaster strode across the courtyard to fetch a second practice sword, he glanced toward the keep.

“That cannot be! He looks just like—“

“Leave it, old friend!” Brandir interrupted sharply, adding under his breath, “Do not speak his name. It is best to leave the dead in peace.”


	13. Under the Linden (Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Dirt" challenge

Not far from the lake, Faramir found the small glade. The linden trees bore sword cuts, black arrows were buried deep in their limbs, yet still their heart-shaped leaves were green. Men fashioned shields from this tree, for its wood was not easily sundered.

Using his dagger, he dug up a sapling and wrapped a wet cloth about its roots. Beside the City gates, he tenderly settled the tree in the dirt. He foresaw that, in days to come, maidens would cut its sweet flowers, while men who once were soldiers sat in its shelter and watched the children play.


	14. Collaboration (Eowyn, Faramir)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Tolkien_weekly "Riddle" challenge

“Our riddles are much like those of the Shirefolk,” Eowyn said.

“Indeed your languages are closely akin.” On the scroll, Faramir wrote _Ancient Riddles of Rohan by Eowyn daughter of Eomund._

“This one is easy," his young wife began. "'A wondrous creature am I. Women adore me, though oft I make them weep. Tall and firm with hair below, I stand erect in my bed.’ Faramir, no one could read that handwriting.”

Laughing, he set down the pen. “An onion?”

“Of course, my love. What else could it be?”

At the sight of her smile, he sent the servants away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn's riddle is loosely adapted from an Anglo-Saxon riddle in the Exeter Book manuscript. It is about an onion...or is it? :)


	15. Pink Oliphaunts (Faramir, Elboron, Beregond)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Acacea's birthday (RIP, dear friend)

“I am drawing a battle, Father. And Captain Beregond is helping.” Elboron held a red stone clenched in his fist; all around them, the white paving stones were scrawled with dark pink lines.

“Merely as a councilor, my prince. The drawing is Elboron’s work.” The captain of the guard rose to his feet; he had been sitting cross-legged on the ground.

“Elboron drew the ratchets on that catapult?”

“Well, no. I did add a few touches here and there.”

A pink Oliphaunt smiled cheerfully at Faramir from the pavement. It reared above a troop of Rohirrim, dancing on its hind legs. “That is a fine likeness of an Oliphaunt, Elboron. And that must be your uncle Eomer.” One horseman towered above his comrades, nearly as tall as the smiling mûmak. 

Beregond shook his head. “I never deemed it wise to use Oliphaunts in battle. In the press of the fight, they cared not who they trampled.”

“Poor beasts. No doubt they thought only of fleeing the slaughter. They were far from their home in the South.” Faramir reached down to stroke his son’s hair.

Elboron looked up, his eyes dark with worry. “Did they ever find their way home, Father?”

“I never heard what befell them, but wild creatures can find their path without the aid of a map. So perhaps, in the end, the Oliphaunts returned to the land of their birth.”

Seeming content with this answer, his son bent over the pavement and sketched another happy, pink Oliphaunt.


	16. The Waves' Song (Arwen)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the "Change in the Weather" challenge at Tolkien_weekly

Winter swept from the north on grey gull wings. Chill waves furrowed the grass, while the branches above surged and heaved in a golden tempest of leaves.

The elven woman weighed down the hill with her stillness, her black hair streaming like the banner from a mast. As she faced into the storm, her long cloak flapped like a poorly-trimmed sail.

“Bear me away with these words,” she whispered to the wind. “Bear me away across the sea; take me beyond the walls of this world.” There was no answer, only an echo of the waves’ song in the trees.


End file.
